


my friend keeps getting into fights with a cook at waffle house

by teaspecs



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enjolras Is Bad At Feelings, M/M, Mutual Pining, Romance, Slow Burn, first fic babeyyyyyy, waffle house au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:42:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24156064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teaspecs/pseuds/teaspecs
Summary: Enjolras is a picky eater. Grantaire is a bored cook. Unnecessary tension ensues.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 30





	1. the first time

**Author's Note:**

> this is based off of the r/relationship_advice thread "My (29F) Boyfriend (29M) keeps getting into fights with a cook at Waffle House" that was going around, i apologize in advance i'm just really trying to keep myself entertained here

“Excuse me? Sorry, I ordered my eggs over easy… they’re a little overcooked, you see the yolk here? Is it possible to get them remade?”

I can’t tell you what I was thinking in that moment. What led me here? Had everything in my life up to this point just been to prime me for this solitary moment of reckless insolence? Pointless defiance to a pretty face? Was this my moment of spitting in God’s face and taking back what dignity he made such a game of stealing from me?

Am I being hard to follow? Let me explain.

“Yeah, sure. Just be a minute.”

When the man with the pretty face asked me to remake his eggs, having the courtesy to look me in the eyes with over-enunciated humanity while also with entirely too much grace for a cheap, nationally franchised diner… I felt compelled.

I smiled smoothly, making sure to let my eyes film over blankly before the rage seethed through. Think what you want of me after you hear this, Reader, but make no mistake – I _am_ a professional. And yes, maybe my eyes did a moment linger for other reasons. Maybe that’s why his eggs were cooked too long in the first place. Who’s to say?

Then I turned away, easing back into the motions of preparing food. I continued toasting the endless chain of white wonder bread – this man wasn’t the only person dining in this evening, and God forbid I give him priority – appreciating the easy gratification of inserting a slab of over-processed fluff into the toaster and having it popped back my way as a perfectly golden crisp. It was an uncomplicated joy. When I’m on the clock, nothing troubles this brow more than the flex of my spatula. And that’s a relief, isn’t it?

Which brings us to my dime spin decision to ruin it all. To add complexity where it wasn’t warranted. You see, people ask for remakes all the time. That’s just a part of the job.

I pulled over a couple of eggs. I contemplated the heated griddle. I laid down a bit of oil. I cracked the shells open, laid out their contents. I stared at the puddle of whites and the floating yolks as if I were staring directly into an abyss. And then I (metaphorically) jumped.

My spatula brusquely bisected one of the yolks, and then in a moment of reckless inspiration, I continued my seasoned scraping and whirling, scrambling the eggy mess before me right there on the griddle. I pulled up a fresh plate and, after conversing politely with the sizzling of quickly scrambling eggs until I was assured that they were fully cooked, transferred the contents over.

The key here was to not hesitate. As I said – when cooking, my brain was effectively turned off. When not cooking, well, my brain was an absolute mess. So best not to give myself an opportunity to hesitate. Our man with the pretty face was seated with a companion at our bar, directly overlooking the kitchen, so I needed only turn back around and take a couple of steps to reach him. I did so, and then gently (gently!) slapped the plate in front of him.

Reader, let’s take a moment to set some things straight. This is an unreliable narrative. You have only my account of these events, so it’s really up to your own discretion how much stock you put in my words. Whether you trust me or not, well, I can’t much change that. But please know that I do not mince the truth when I say this: when I looked at the pretty man before me, anticipating his reaction regarding my bold act of pettiness, I _absolutely_ wore a shit-eating smirk.

“Um. Sorry, this isn’t what I ordered.”

The pretty man’s companion looked a combination of quiet mirth and embarrassment. For what it’s worth, he did not make any move to intervene.

“Oh, it’s not? Not scrambled?” I replaced my smirk with a bored expression, even affected being perplexed. I’m not much of an actor. Defying God – defying a pretty face, that is – was absolutely drowning my brain in dopamine.

“No. I ordered them over-easy. With runny yolk.”

“I’m pretty sure you said scrambled…”

“Look, I’ll pay extra for the remake. But I want two eggs over-easy.”

“Oh no, you don’t have to do that… I’ll remake them. But I’m gonna be honest, sir, I put a lot of heart into those scrambled eggs there. You don’t even want to try them? You’ll like them.” What’s that? Me? Bordering on _flirting_? I never.

“No. It’s not what I ordered. I don’t want scrambled eggs.”

“Alright, boss. You got it. You really don’t give an inch, huh?”

At this point, the pretty man finally seemed to experience embarrassment for his insistence. He forced a polite smile and said sheepishly, “Sorry, I just… am very particular with my eggs.”

“No shame in that. Let me give it another go. You said hard-boiled?”

“No! Uh, over-easy.” Lord, but he was trying so hard to not come off as a total asshole. A shame that not a cell in my body seemed to care. It may be true what they tell you in school – you know, about the mitochondria being the powerhouse of the cell or whatever. But jot this down, Reader, because an absolute anomaly like this could surely wreak havoc on modern day science: currently, irritating the absolute shit out of this complete, inexplicably hot stranger was the only thing powering _any_ of my cells. God works in mysterious ways, huh? Yeah.

You get the drill here, Reader. I gave a real show of nodding and looking stupidly determined to get this man’s order right. I turned around, grabbed a couple more eggs.

As for the pretty man, he proceeded to audibly shove his companion, who was teasing him. I heard him mutter angrily, “Shut up, Combeferre.” A sudden jolt shattered my brain’s focus – were they a couple? Just friends? I quickly shut that train of thought down. Not relevant. A man can play with another man’s eggs without instigating any romantic grief, surely.

Back to the eggs. I know you’re on to me, so I’ll cut straight to the chase. I didn’t cook them over-easy. How did I go about it, then, you’re asking? How did I keep him off my trail? How did I preserve the game (because that’s definitely what this was)? Easy.

We’re all hapless victims of capitalism, no? And under capitalism, it’s all: productivity, productivity, productivity! Productivity or death! Upward incline forever, no matter the means necessary! It’s bullshit, obviously. If you haven’t figured this out yet, Reader, take my advice: you’re going to have to learn how to fake it. Play along. Surviving under capitalism is all about mastering the illusion of productivity. Maybe one day there will be a grand revolution and we’ll rise against the means of production, but let’s be real – it’s not happening anytime soon. In our lifetime, survival is the most we can really aspire to. This is all to say, yeah, I put on a mighty big show of just boiling eggs. I’ve had a lot of practice. He had no idea what I was up to.

So, I want you to really immerse yourself in the scene here – you’ve had a long week, you’re a little cranky, you’re a picky eater. In fact, this is your first meal of the day, aside from countless cups of coffee. You just want your meal made right. Your vibrating, exhausted brain just really needs this _one_ indulgence. To put it frankly, if your tongue isn’t immersed in the comfort of thick, runny egg yolk in the next ten minutes, you’re going to snap. But hey, you’re a good guy. You pride yourself on your patience, your empathy, your resounding support for the daily turmoil of the average food worker… so you’re willing to be a good sport. To an extent. Look, the stakes are kind of high here for you. You only can do so much under the circumstances. So, when the cook decides to play games with you – and really, why _you_? You didn’t do anything to warrant this! – you can’t really be expected to reign in your temper, can you? And boy, you’ve got a temper.

Right.

I placed a small plate with two peeled, boiled eggs before the man with the pretty face. The imagery of this was hilarious, and so accordingly I barely stifled a laugh. I almost couldn’t meet his eyes, but I hurriedly clamped down onto the spirit of mischief that had possessed me.

“Okay, this is ridiculous," he huffed in the way that almost (dangerously) suggested a laugh. Fury dominated his face. Was I terrified? Undoubtedly. Was it also somewhat alluring? I won’t answer that. “You know this isn’t...”

“You wanted runny yolk, right? They’re soft-boiled. Here, let me cut them for you and you’ll se--”

“Don’t!”

I had started to reach over with my spatula. This was definitely against health code and our general code of service, so please understand that I’m telling this in strict confidence (i.e. please, don’t tell my boss). The sudden violence of the pretty man’s exclamation made me freeze. He knew how to keep a guy on his toes.

“Enjolras,” his friend cautioned. Ah. So he had a name.

“No! What are you getting at here? You know what I ordered, I’ve told you multiple times now! Why can’t you just – make it?!” With those last words, he shoved his plate toward me in emphasis. I’m fairly positive he didn’t intend for the following to happen, but as an additional accent – per the rules of gravity, of course – the two eggs flew right off the plate. Heads didn’t roll that evening, but boy, those boiled eggs sure did (haha).

Some wandering eyes found themselves resting on our little spectacle, but the bustle of the diner was relatively still intact. Still, I relished in the theatrics of staring with raised eyebrows at egg-man, whose face was visibly battling between fury and horror. With a sickening rush of glee – this was the most alive I’d felt at work in ages – I began to--

“Enjolras. That’s enough.”

Enjolras and I both paused and looked to his companion, who’d been calmly drinking a black coffee this entire time. He didn’t look so amused or long-suffering anymore.

“I think it’s time for us to head out. Thank you,” he turned to me, speaking firmly, and glanced pointedly at the nametag pinned to my stained apron. “Grantaire. I apologize for my friend.” He graciously didn't mention my role in our mini-showdown.

Enjolras didn’t even try to stutter out an argument, despite his obvious frustration and – here I felt a pang – exhaustion. They quickly got their belongings in order, grabbed the receipt that I’d laid on their table earlier, and left their seats to pay at the register on the other side of the diner.

The spirit of mischief left me rather abruptly, a gaping sense of emptiness taking its place. Reader? I felt a little guilty. A classic case of instigator’s remorse. I quickly cleaned the egg mess, and then resorted to staring (unabashed and obvious) after the two diners who had managed to arrest my attention for the night as they made their way to the exit. Maybe my guilt showed on my face. I made eye contact with the pretty one – with Enjolras – just as he was pushing open the door to leave. He furrowed his eyebrows at me and turned away furiously. He looked a little flushed.

How insufferable.

I scowled myself, shrugging my shoulders irritably, and quickly assembled some of my best assumptions as they related to Enjolras. With the deftness of a world-famous conductor, I began orchestrating a biting assessment of the entitlement of white-collar workers. It was a move meant to distract myself from any personal introspection. I was a little afraid of what I might find. I was a little afraid I might realize that I’d acted with cruelty, amusing myself at the expense of a well-meaning person. I was afraid of what that said about me. 

It’s not that deep, I assured myself.

It was then that a coworker approached me, looking perplexed. “That guy with the blond hair left you a twenty-dollar tip.”

Ah. Interesting.


	2. the second time

Reader, let’s get one thing very clear. If you’re in any way expecting the exploration of the ambient world of cooking, you’re in the wrong place. I will not be discussing the chattering of chopped onion against a hot pan. I will not discuss reverently the meaty carpentry of a bacon canoe floating across a man-made lake of oil. The warm breath of a soft-spoken waffle? You’re in the wrong place.

Here’s the reality: I make $11 an hour. Boss is going to have to pay me a bit more than that to romanticize absolutely anything about this place. The life of a diner cook isn’t glamorous.

Sure, I’ll mince garlic all day long, but let me not mince the obvious truth here: I don’t love my job. Who does? It’s just a living. A means to an end. This is how our society is built. This is the plight of the modern man. To live, we must toil. Life is pain. Since probably even before the Labours of Heracles, people have been fascinated with romanticizing work and suffering.*

*Look, I’m no Classics expert, but King Eurystheus pretty blatantly just seized an opportunity to capitalize off another man’s grief. Where’s the so-called redemption in that? What am I missing? Tragedies are so overrated.

Anyway, you simply can’t beat the soul-crushing regularity of the 40-hour week. I’m the type of person who _needs_ a solid routine. It’s when I stray from my routine that my life generally devolves into chaos. This routine has served me pretty well so far. It’s better than some I’ve had in the past. There are stretches of my past that my brain has just run a black sharpie through, never to access again. And well, so what if I spend every morning building a dozen mental blocks around the thought, “What would 12-year-old you think about current you being 29 and only having _this_ to show for it”? That’s my business, isn’t it?

But I know what you’re here for, so I’ll quit waxing poetic.

Egg-man returned a week later.

He was once again accompanied by his friend – the Combeferre fellow, who wore fashionable glasses and whose locs were neatly twisted into a bun. My first thought decidedly was _not_ despairing over my inability to complete with a guy like that. That would be ridiculous. No, I assure you, my initial reaction was purely one of piqued interest, accompanied _maybe_ by a dash of amusement. Then I felt a familiar swoop in my stomach, the call from the void which I’ve never been able to deny: self-destruction.

“Hello,” I called out to them first, facetious and smug. They had self-consciously seated themselves at a booth a little further back from the bar and the kitchen line this time around.

Enjolras returned my gaze – the most aggressive attempt at civility I’ve ever experienced – and offered me a bland, cold greeting in return. In contrast, Combeferre, casual and agreeable, smiled at me knowingly, and added, “We come in peace, I promise. This one just loves his breakfast.”

I grinned amicably in return, turning back to my work. I’m sure I look unconvinced, and for good reason. While the waitress on duty took their order, I was already mentally adorning myself in the mocking reds of a torero.

\--

“’Scuse me – Enjolras, right?”

Passionately engaged in discussion with Combeferre, who sipped from a plain mug of coffee, Enjolras visibly started at the interruption. His demeanor changed abruptly, from open and enthusiastic to guarded and impersonal. He hesitated. “…Yes?”

“Ran out of eggs.” I could feel my own attempt at being brash and impersonal falter as a smirk tangled with one edge of my lips. I counter-balanced by wrinkling my forehead at him expectantly.

Combeferre, no doubt sensing the precarious nature of our dynamic, immediately jumped forward. “Oh, that’s alright. We can just order something else. Maybe instead, an order of—”

“There are two cartons of eggs right behind you.”

Imagine a dramatic pause, Reader. It would be pretty accurate.

“Are there?” I feigned surprise, looking behind me. “Huh. Guess you’re right. Must have missed them – false alarm, then!” I gestured toward Enjolras with my spatula, affecting flippant nonchalance, before turning away.

There was definitely a power play going on here; I knew this guy’s type. You don’t walk into a crummy diner serving hot young professor realness for nothing (and who are you kidding, anyway? You’re a grad student at best). Even the act of not trying to prove a point is telling. For him, this was a charitable performance. He had those soft-served holier-than-thou vibes, those just-a-dash of a-raging-superiority-complex vibes. The ‘I understand and can empathize more about class warfare than you, even though poverty is little more than a concept to me personally’ vibes.

But that was all okay, because I knew from personal experience that this type of guy made for a great game of goading. They’re so bottled up. It wasn’t anything against Enjolras personally – sure, his dignified comfortability and ease in my shitty diner infuriated me beyond reason – but no, the entertainment came from the fact he was screwed so tight over trying to save the planet, he was at any given point just minutes away from popping off like mentos in a liter of coke. And I happened to love mentos.

And anyway, no matter what his intentions or politics are, the point is: Enjolras isn’t relevant _here_. The hierarchy of the outside world enters a sort of limbo inside a diner like this. The relationship between how fine your clothes are and how much respect that apparently entitles you are directly inversed. What’s more, as the cook… I call the final shots. I don’t know why it suddenly felt imperative to make Enjolras understand that. I was having fun, sure, but there was more… Indignation. Anger.

Embarrassment? Maybe.

I tell you all of this to emphasize the tension that existed between us. It was both superficial and petty, and simultaneously rooted in something else not quite so vain.

And as for me and this Enjolras fellow – we had both mutually picked up on this unnamed _thing_ , because every single interaction up to this point had been savagely toe-ing just past the line of what was socially acceptable. I had ultimately started this conflict, yes, I’ll grant that. Enjolras’ frustration and weariness with me up to this point was mostly warranted, if a bit callous. But what Enjolras did next? Well, reader, that marked his entry as an official opponent.

Let me elaborate.

I cooked his meal – his companion, Combeferre, seemed to routinely prefer only a cup of coffee while Enjolras ate – precisely the way he ordered it, all except for the egg. You knew that.

Instead of two eggs over-easy, I firmly veered off-course. I toasted a simple square of bread, cut a circle from its center, flopped it onto the griddle, and cracked an egg straight in. As it is colloquially known, a perfectly unexceptional egg-in-a-hole.

And for what it’s worth, I’m not just some asshole bent on inconveniencing strangers who I immediately, profoundly find myself resenting. I’ll have you know I’m multi-faceted, and have many other hobbies: for instance, while the egg cooked, I stared at the yellow yolk and earnestly imagined a bland smiley face imposed over it. So you see, Reader, I am a simple (albeit incredibly bored) man, and I have acquired a small arsenal of insignificant tools to help myself pass the time. Antagonizing customers just happens to be one of them. It’s as simple as that!

Once I judged the egg well-enough cooked, I scooped it up and plated it with the rest of Enjolras’ order. I valiantly fought the smugness off my face and handed the order off to the waitress on duty -- Eponine.

Eponine and I always worked these Saturday shifts together, and over the past year or so had built up a strong friendship. People with a certain quality of misery about them? We tend to sniff each other out in the world. And while we don’t necessarily talk about what exactly ails us – most likely we can’t even qualify it ourselves – we find unspoken companionship in each other. A comfort in similar dysfunction. I think that’s what Eponine and I shared. And anyway, I loved her biting humor and irreverence. What she liked about me, exactly? I can’t say – but sometimes she’d call me if her ride to work bailed on her. When I’d pull up to her house, she’d always have an insulated mug of watery, bitter coffee that she’d offer me as compensation. It always felt like a finger pressing softly against a dark bruise in my heart. It was a gesture simultaneously small and big. It was enough for me.

When Eponine observed the plate I’d handed off, she glared at me and started to say, “This isn’t—”

“—I know.”

She arched a brow at me for a moment, but then visibly seemed to decide she didn’t care enough to fight the case. She walked off toward Enjolras’ table. I would have loved to watch how his elegant face contorted when he realized my small, pointed affront, but I pointedly turned away and focused on my next order.

A test.

A bait.

I was wholly unsurprised when I heard his familiar voice only feet away, pressed to the bar counter right behind me.

“This isn’t what I ordered.”

“Oh, it isn’t?” I tossed a dismissive glance over my shoulder, eyeing him and the plate he’d set on the counter separating us.

“You know it isn’t.”

“No, I don’t think I do.” A childish response, I know. I turned toward him fully now, and in doing so saw something like satisfaction flick across his face. It worked like a spark against the tinder of my insides. I could feel the airs of my playful antagonism drying up, and something a little more acidic start to catch flame.

He then scoffed with disgust. “What’s your deal with me? I haven’t done anything to you.” Like a nest of little birds stretching their neck upwards, squawking for food, so did the void in my stomach arch up and start to tear away the last of my resolve. Cold apathy and – nihilistic attraction? Self-loathing? A complex cocktail of emotions, but the point was: I had been dead set on annoying this stranger, but now found myself annoyed _by_ him.

“You’re absolutely right, you haven’t. It seems I’ve just forgotten how to make eggs today. You must forgive me. We don’t really get hired for our smarts around here,” I snarked at him, starting to turn back to the food on my griddle.

“Look, if I did something to offend you, just come out and say it. But your… your behavior is unacceptable.”

Again, with the subtle superiority! I furiously scraped my spatula through a generous pile of half-frozen hash browns on the griddle, sending stray flecks of potato scattering. Then I turned the dial up on the heat – in more ways than one. My voice rising, I said in his direction, “Is it? You want my manager’s number? Wanna call corporate on me?”

Forget Prometheus and his vulture. I had inserted a knife into my own liver and was ruthlessly tearing away at it myself. Spare a prayer for Grantaire and his perpetual torment by self-sabotage, won’t you?

“No! I just want–“

At this point, we were gathering outside attention. I could feel Eponine cautiously pulling near me, and Combeferre had risen from the booth he’d shared with Enjolras earlier and was quickly approaching.

“Enjolras, calm down, he’s just teasing—"

“No—"

“Yeah, _Enjolras_ , listen to your boyfriend and just chill out.”

And that is the moment when egg ended up directly on my face. Oh, did you not catch that, reader? He’d taken the contents of his plate and intentionally thrown them across the counter at me.

The diner was completely silent at this point. That was a small miracle; the diner was never silent. If anyone had dared drop a fork in that moment, the clatter would have echoed… and that would have been another miracle, given I’d skipped deckbrushing the floors for a couple of weeks now and the film of sludge was quite thick.

I let that silence ring out in my head like an alarm bell for a dramatic moment, and then I was yanking my apron off, rounding the bar counter, and seizing Enjolras’ collar.

Reader? I’d like to pause the story for a second and assure you that at my core, I’m actually something of a pacifist. This is not to suggest that I believe violence is never the answer. I think that often, in the face of systemic oppression, it is the only true means of change. And I’m all for guillitoning the rich. But the price of violence is always weighty, and often of greater pain and detriment – and risk -- to the oppressed. Which is just to say, I can’t often muster _myself_ to the act of violence. I’m a realist, you know. A pessimist by some’s standards. Most days I’m honestly just too tired.

I say this to emphasize how uncharacteristic this outburst was of me. I routinely piss people off, sure (consequently, I’ve had the shit beaten out of me too many times to count). That’s something I’ve willingly accepted. But something about Enjolras really made me _tick_ – made me furious, and elated, and confused.

Let’s cut to the chase.

I jumped at Enjolras, shoving him back with all the forward momentum I had in me. I discovered in that moment that I was rather shorter than him, but significantly stronger. My brain hadn’t processed what to do beyond this, but it didn’t need to, because Enjolras countered my actions instantly and almost eagerly, thrashing against me. My vision flickered – black, red, black again. The thing about Enjolras that I know now: he is always ready for a fight.

This moment seemed to stretch an eternity, us staring at and gripping each other furiously and with the intention of violence…

…But in reality it barely lasted more than a few seconds. Everyone around us immediately began shouting and intervening. Combeferre quite impressed me by the speed (and ease) in which he ripped us apart.

“What the fuck, Enjolras!” I heard him shout, distant-sounding to my ears in spite of his proximity.

Not even sparing me a glance, Combeferre immediately yanked his friend outside. An apparent master of de-escalation; I wondered if he’d had previous experience. I watched through the diner’s window as Enjolras was dragged to his friend’s car, obviously still dazed by his own rush of adrenaline and battle fury. My own chest was heaving. The bubble of conversation was almost immediately returning, cautious at first but steadily rising as the prospect of gossip and speculation invigorated the diners.

Before I had a chance to really process all that had happened – I felt a bit like a misbehaving dog whose owner had decided to spray with an ice-cold jet of water – Eponine seized my arm and yanked me to the back. Feeling a crowd of eyes follow me, she snapped at our co-workers, “We’re taking ten.”

We whisked through the back-of-house and through the employee backdoor, bringing us to a little alcove generally reserved for the smokers on staff. The adrenaline was kicking into my system a little latently, and I could feel myself beginning to shake. Eponine wordlessly offered me a cig, lighting one for herself as well. I put some distance between us, needing to settle myself, and she let the silence sit between us. We just stood there for a minute.

Finally, benefitting from the slow buzz of the nicotine, I looked over at her. “Yeah, I don’t know what that was.”

She looked at me with a quirked eyebrow, as if to say she knew _all_ about what “that” was.

“R?”

“Yeah?”

“Their tab… That’s coming out of your tips.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re lucky Valjean doesn’t work weekends.”

“Yeah… He’ll probably hear about it, anyway. I’m fucked.”

“Nah. If he does, I’ll just tell him that I was a witness and you were acting in self-defense. I don’t think anyone else was really paying attention to all your desperate flirting beforehand, anyway.”

“That was _not_ flirt—"

“—Save it, R, how you woo your men is wholly your business and I’m _not_ interested.”

I glared at her balefully, but ultimately decided it’d be more incriminating if I tried to argue with her further.

“Whatever, Ep.”

Eponine looked at me sideways and then continued staring off into the distance of the parking lot, taking a contemplative drag from her cigarette.

After a companionable silence, she snorted softly – and then burst out laughing. The sound of it instantly thawed me out, and I started laughing too.

“You’re such an idiot. Come on, let’s get back in there. By the way, you’re driving me home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> obviously do what u want but just letting yall know that this fic is pure self-indulgence and in MY head grantaire looks sorta like joji and enjolras looks like a more masc ruby tandoh. anyway have a good day & thx for the read!


	3. the third time

When I saw the familiar head of curls ducking past the diner window – a standard blond-color save for distinctive shocks of sun-kissed ringlets – I rolled my eyes in exasperation. Was I being tested, or was I cursed? What had I ever done to God, anyway, besides practice a little healthy skepticism in regards to his actual existence?

It was a slow day, thankfully, and only Eponine was in beside me; the other waitress had been cut early. Factoring this all in carefully and judiciously (I was a bit on thin ice in terms of job security), I decided to err on the side of blatantly obnoxious.

As soon as the door pulled open, I leaned over the counter and loudly shouted, “No!”

My outburst immediately attracted everyone’s eyes, and Enjolras managed to look a little uncertain.

“Not today, Egg Boy,” I elaborated.

“Am I… not allowed to enter?”

I felt Eponine’s assessing gaze on my back first, and then seconds later the betrayal of her back-stab. She took a few steps toward Enjolras and said, “As long as you don’t start anything with Grantaire, you’re fine. But any trouble, and you’re banned.”

Eponine had a very no-nonsense demeanor around customers, and Enjolras received the full-force of this now. He nodded quickly at her, emanating nothing but earnest intention, and I could see him mouthing my name after she uttered it. As if, in that moment, committing it to memory. If I wasn’t still trying to process Eponine’s treachery, his bald determination would have made my blood boil.

“Eponine!” I beseeched, eyes widening in horror.

She did not deign to give me a reaction, instead walking back to her makeshift silverware-prep station. I leveraged a baleful look at Enjolras, at a loss, before pointing my spatula at him with a flourish of antagonism.

“No eggs,” I said, and furiously swung back toward my griddle to churn out a couple orders of waffles and bacon.

“That’s fine, I mainly just wanted to –”

I was ignoring him. He caught on. Smart. But not _that_ smart, actually – after only a minute or two, I heard an expectant cough from behind me. Of course. He’d decided to sit directly behind me, at the bar. I frantically contemplated my options, but it was obvious: avoiding this would only increase and prolong the painful awkwardness of this situation.

Enjolras was the type used to getting exactly what he wanted (also the type to take jokes too seriously, or to purposefully misunderstand you) – that was abundantly clear based on our prior interactions. And now he wanted to redeem himself… so suffice it to say, he was _going_ to force this conversation.

Fine.

“Here by yourself? I’m surprised.”

“Yeah. My friend, Combeferre… he, uh, refuses to come here with me anymore.”

“Really?” I layered on the disinterest and sarcasm, but he chose to not notice.

“Yeah. He said it’s enabling.” He snorted, obviously disagreeing.

“That would insinuate there’s something addictive going on here.” I looked over my shoulder passively, but let my eyes linger when I saw him start with surprise at my response.

He cleared his throat uncomfortable, and sheepishly continued. “He’s telling anyone who will listen that I keep getting in fights with a cook at Waffle House.”

“Well. I think that part is _technically_ true, Enjolras.”

“It’s ridiculous. Or I mean, I’m ridiculous. I don’t know how… any of that happened. I don’t act like that. I abhor that kind of behavior, I’m honestly ashamed—"

“—Look, it’s okay. It’s my fault anyway.” I decided to bite the bullet and get this over with as swiftly as possible. “I started it. It was just a joke at first, but I took it too far. Okay?”

There was a pause. Enjolras stared at me like he didn’t quite know what to say. It felt surreal; if not for the pop of grease against my skin, I would have been convinced I was dreaming. Enjolras spoke up at last, his tone changing. “Wait, a second ago – how do you remember my name?”

“Oh. Customer service thing. Sorry, some people find it kind of creepy. Your friend kind of kept yelling at it when… Well. It just stuck in my brain.”

“Oh. I see.”

“It happens with a lot of people – mostly regulars, I mean – remembering their name…”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“What?”

“Combeferre, my friend. You called him my boyfriend, the last time – when I threw... But he’s not. We’re just friends.”

“Oh… Oh! I mean, I kind of just said that to piss you off—"

“Yeah, I know.”

“…Why did it, then? Piss you off? To the point of throwing your plate at me, I mean.”

I had expected Enjolras to look even more sheepish in his response, but instead he sort of inflated with purpose, and the furrow of his brow felt like a spear levered right into my heart. “It felt kind of homophobic, to be honest, you saying that. You said it like it was an insult. Which crossed a line with me. I take that type of thing very seriously.”

Caught off guard by the sincerity with which he spoke, and how serious he was, I felt shame gurgling in my throat. Following it was that instinctive prickling of defensiveness. I rushed to speak.

“Oh God, I didn’t mean it like that. I was just being a jerk, and condescending, and looking for a rise… I mean, I’m gay if that makes any difference, so I absolutely didn’t mean it like that.” I found myself looking eagerly for his reaction, but was met with a kind of reserved, polite nod of understanding. The shame deepened, which started to stoke the reactive fire of anger in my stomach. I crushed it down. “But, um… your order! Sorry! What can I get you today? It’s on me.”

“You don’t have to… I mean, that’s very kind, but I’m perfectly capable—”

“—No, I insist. Particularly because I absolutely will not be making any eggs for you. I will give you anything without eggs, on the house.”

Enjolras finally cracked a smirk at me, and I noticed he had the beginnings of laugh lines around his eyes. “Very _diplomatic_ of you,” he said, tentatively accepting my shitty olive branch.

I spread my arms out and took a bow, finding the beginnings of my anger quickly transmuting into the airs of a jester. “Oh, I am quite the politician around these parts. So what’ll it be, Egg Boy?”

He laughed at me, disbelieving. “Um. Waffles, I guess?”

“A classic – perfect. Be out in just a minute.”

“Thank you, Grantaire.”

I smirked at him, and finally turned away, grateful and feeling like I’d dodged a bullet. At this point, more orders had come in, so I had to leave Enjolras to mostly entertain himself. He seemed perfectly content doing so – and once he received his waffles, it became apparent that he was – in addition to everything else – also the incredibly-slow-eater type. He picked at his plate diligently, taking small bites and thoroughly contemplating each and every one of them. I could practically see his thoughts manifesting in the air around him, weaving around his head like a saint’s halo.

I kept glancing (as discreetly as I could manage) at him as I went about my duties, and mulled over how confounding the trajectory of our interactions was. I was suspended in an almost magnetic pull toward him, oscillating between utter fascination and complete fury but inevitably drawn closer. Please understand, Reader, I’ve had _plenty_ of customers blow up at me before. Both purposefully and accidentally, I’ve pushed many a joke too far and ended up with a small scene on my hands. Red-faced customer accusing me of having an attitude? Of being rude? Of mocking them? Of wanting to talk to a manager regarding my _absolutely unacceptable_ behavior? Oh yeah.

And I assure you, I’ve as good as mastered how to mediate the aftermath of these situations. Glaze your eyes just right, and you can convince just about any customer that you don’t recognize them from their last (explosive) visit, and that you’ve forgotten about the event entirely. Business as usual.

But Enjolras had me in a weird flux. A homeostasis thoroughly disturbed. I wanted to keep the peace with Enjolras – hell, I wanted to know more about him now – but this was tempered dangerously by my still-very-existent desire to goad him into hating me, to re-stoke the flames of anger and, ultimately, bask in his attention. And there was just no reasoning with that.

Talk about hard to process.

“Um, Grantaire?”

I pulled myself from my thoughts and turned away from the heat of my griddle (and the mini-suburb of sizzling bacon that I’d constructed), focusing on the hesitancy of Enjolras’ regard.

“Yeah?”

“I’m gonna head out, but thank you so much… for this.” He gestured at his empty plate, but I understood that he meant more than just that. “It was good.”

“Sure, Enjolras. I really am sorry about… pushing you too far, before.”

“No, no. I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did, there’s no excuse. But we’re good?”

“Of course.” I looked down, fingers rubbing at an invisible mark on the counter separating us while I mustered some courage. My cuticles were looking rough. Couple of burn marks on my hands; they’d take months to heal. Cooking for a living sure ain’t glamorous. I exhaled. “Will we see you here again?”

Enjolras smiled, and its brilliance caused me to instantly mirror it. “Oh, definitely. I love breakfast food.”

“Good.”

“Well… I’ll see you around, then.”

“Sure.”

I watched as he left, and as soon as the door closed behind him, I squinted my eyes in exasperation and furiously pressed my knuckles to my forehead. What an absolutely boring, bland way to respond to someone!

When I opened my eyes and looked up, I saw Eponine leering at me. I glared right back at her, still not ready to forgive her for her transgressions, and began to clear away Enjolras’ place. When I picked up his plate, I found a tip neatly hidden under it. I froze, considering the modest collection of bills. A blankness filled me. It was a sweet gesture. But I felt a pang in my insides, like a stone tossed into an empty well.

Reader, don’t misunderstand me: Tip your servers no matter what, and tip them well. I don’t care what they tell you – the customer is _never_ right, and the customer is _always_ a burden. Tip them extra, for anything and for everything. If they give you free food especially, tip them extra! Tip culture is obviously bullshit, and only feeds into an insidious industry model that completely undervalues the labor of its workers… But that’s the system, isn’t it? And any attempt to dismantle it can’t be made at the expense of the worker. So tip them, pay them what they’re worth, help them feel like a little more than just another cog in the machine. And hope someday it changes. That’s all we can really do, no?

But something about getting a tip from Enjolras – especially when I’d just considered the possibility of friendship between us – made my mouth go sour. And feel guilty. It made our interaction feel transactional. I couldn’t pinpoint it; he’d done exactly what you’re _supposed_ to do. And God knows I needed the extra cash, anyway.

But how deep did that go? How much of how he’d treated me today had been guided only by the idea of what he was _supposed_ to do? How much of that had been purely on principle, and how much had been genuine? Was Enjolras ashamed of upending eggs in _my_ face, or was he ashamed of upending eggs in the face of a _food worker_? Was gaining my approval simply a box for him to check off, a means toward validating (and achieving) some higher purpose? Was I being paranoid, and overthinking things again?

Probably.

Money made everything feel cheap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thx for reading! stay tuned for chapter 4, where i think we'll get some actual progression. should be posted in the next day or so


	4. the fourth time

“Grantaire, focus! I need an order of hashbrowns – like, now!”

Hello, Reader. Nice to see you again. Well it would be, if I wasn’t completely suspended in the air above my own body, or if my consciousness wasn’t so blasted it was just particles in the air around me, observing this man before me, dark-haired and with the ghost of an insecure hunch to his shoulders.

We have good days, we have bad days. This was one of those my-nerves-are-shot-and-I’m-not-sure-why days. Everything in my head was vibrating, and I don’t know how many times I’d just stared at customers uncomprehendingly when they’d asked me something. I tried to stay turned away from the counter and disengaged as much as possible.

I’d already lost it on a customer; he’d loudly complained about something and, without even bothering to play along and ask how I could  _ make it right _ , I’d said, “Due respect, sir, but you want a meal worth a Michelin star, you’re in the wrong fucking place!”

He’d shouted something back – I can’t even remember what, Reader, the adrenaline and rage barely requiring any prompting before it completely flooded all of my senses. Just as I’d started to open my mouth and really dig my heels in, Eponine had come over and shut the customer down quietly and succinctly, in that way of hers, her eyes flashing coldly at me after having done so. She looked tired herself. I felt a trembling of guilt, at adding any extra pressure to her.

Shortly after, I begged off on a short break. I spent it pacing the back store room, clutching at my hair melodramatically, alternating between moments of staring despairingly at the moldy ceiling and moments of pure blackness as I drove my clenched fists into my face and groaned under the strain of having to be there.

I took a deep breath (and I mean deep) and felt a sickening certainty in my heart that I was going to die at this job.

And that? Well that was enough to have me yanking my hands from my eyes and frantically pawing through my jacket hanging on the communal coat rack. I pulled out my flask (something that had started out as a joke and steadily become a problem) and greedily drank what I figured would be enough to take the sting off the rest of this shift.

And then I was on my way back to the floor, because they give you the break you deserve around here and never the one you need.

As I returned, nodding to Eponine and retying my apron, the buzzing chatter of the diner hitting me and almost immediately making my mind go uncomfortably blank, I suddenly caught sight of a familiar head of curls ducking through the door.

Of course it was Enjolras. And of course it was now. He seemed like the type who loved a good routine, and I’m sure if I wasn’t so stubbornly doing my best to not pick up on what that routine was, I would have him figured out instantly.

My first instinct after seeing him was to look away, to ignore him. I didn’t have it in me to muster any energy or mischief or banter with Enjolras. His presence required so much effort from me, and as was abundantly clear, I had nothing to give. Not today.

But instead our eyes immediately locked, and I noticed the stark contrast between the small (intimate?) smile he sent my way to the deeply-grooved puffiness of the skin below his eyes.

I walked back toward my station as he walked to his customary seat at the bar, meaning we walked parallel, ducking our heads shyly, only a cheap plastic barrier separating us. There was a warmth dancing in my stomach, and I defensively credited that to the alcohol and certainly not anything else. As Enjolras settled into his stool, I placed my hands on the counter between us and leaned forward. I forced a casual air to my actions, in hopes it would mask my exhaustion with being alive.

“Why, we meet again…”

“Hello, Grantaire.”

“And what do I have the honor of preparing for you today?” My tone was so lethargic I suspected it bordered on playful, and I observed the man across from me with heavy-lidded eyes.

Enjolras looked at me carefully, and seemed to decide something based on what he saw. “Anything. Surprise me?”

“Wow – very adventurous of you.”

“I’m trying.”

“For what it’s worth, that’s actually my biggest pet peeve.”

“Being adventurous?”

“No. When people think they’re being generous, or doing me a service by allowing me to choose what they eat. It’s ten times easier to just mindlessly make what you order. When you ask me to use my brain, you know – it’s very inconvenient. A lot more work for me.”

Enjolras’ eyes flashed at me, tempered by an arched eyebrow.. “Grantaire, you have a track record so far of not making me what I order anyway.”

I paused, considering him, and finally nodded. I felt some of the stiffness leaving my shoulders as I shrugged carelessly at him. “Yeah, you got me there.”

“Should I… order waffles again, then?”

“Oh no, I was just speaking generally. I’ll make your mystery order, Egg Boy. But you better eat it.”

“I will—”

“Grantaire! You have other orders, quit flirting!”

I glared furiously at Eponine’s callous shout from across the diner, and avoided eye contact with Enjolras for fear of what I might find. Some days I could really strangle that girl.

“Sorry,” I said in his direction, doing my best to not botch this performance of nonchalance, and then abruptly turned away, back to work. “Just a minute.”

I resumed my toil of modern-age serfdom, my hoe replaced with a spatula and my liege lord Capitalism embodied by a poorly-cleaned griddle (just kidding: I pledge on my chemical-induced eczema hands that we take the health code around here Very Seriously, may God be my witness), allowing my mind to go a clinical shade of white and muscle memory to pull me through my sequence of tasks.

After about ten minutes, shoulders prickling with self-conscious conceit, I turned back around to an Enjolras sheepishly caught watching me.

“If you don’t eat this omelette, I will throw it in  _ your _ face this time.” I said blandly, and judging by the shocked look of an older man with a thick upper moustache sitting nearby at the bar, maybe a little too loudly.

Enjolras looked at me, the omelette, and back at me. “This isn’t what I ordered.”

I’m embarrassed at how quickly and how immensely my initial reaction was one of disappointment and shock. I guess it made sense - my senses were kind of primed for that, given the nature of our last few encounters. I saw Enjolras’ face start to react to whatever was warring on my own, but then my humors returned to me and I had the theatrical capacity to look mock-outraged.

“A joke, Grantaire! It looks great.”

“A  _ joke _ ? From  _ you _ ?”

Chuckling, he said, “Is that so hard to believe?”

“You’re a little hard to read, Egg Boy.” As I said this, Enjolras took a tentative bite of his food and I had to forcibly remind myself that it is not normal to intently watch someone you barely know eat.

“Yeah, I’ve heard that before.” He shielded his mouth with a polite hand while he chewed, because make no mistake, this was a man with things like  _ manners  _ and  _ principles  _ under his belt.

There was a pause, then. I think some might have referred to it as a pregnant pause, but maybe now isn’t the time to bring reproductive rights into this conversation. Instead, I ran my thumb back and forth along the edge of my finger, restlessly.

“What do you do, Enjolras?” When I felt like he was surprised at the sudden sincerity of my conversation choice, I hastily added, “I’m just wondering because of your  _ generous _ tips. Must be something of a hotshot.”

“Oh, is that so?”

“Unfortunately this is what my calculations tell me. Hotshots  _ love _ to throw their money around.”

Consternation broke across Enjolras’ face the way a shadow might across window’s square of morning light. “I work at the university,” he said, and while he said this almost reluctantly, the hard edge of an unmistakable ego flashed between us. “So I would go as far to say that I’m not a hotshot, I just value your labor in a way that the state does not.”

I snorted loudly and dismissively, feeling suddenly preached at and irritable because of it. “Okay, Egg Boy. Whatever you gotta tell yourself to get your rocks off.” 

Enjolras’ demeanor visibly changed, marked mainly by the confused disgust that contorted his brow, and with it the spirit of our conversation. Casual banter suddenly made into a stand-off. A war waged on the flesh of his face, haughty disdain versus a desperate, self-conscious attempt at civility.

“What do you mean by  _ that, _ Grantaire?”

I suddenly hated that he used my name so familiarly. We didn’t know each other. We weren’t friends. The throbbing in my head that had eased while talking with him suddenly returned, and I found my stomach turning around the spirits I had lapped up so eagerly on my break.

“I don’t  _ know _ , just that that sounds… a little self-serving. Ego trip-y. Like okay, so you’re  _ not _ rich -- no, let me finish! So what, you think by giving a couple of showy tips to a cook at a shitty diner you’re instigating real change? How radical of you.

“If you actually cared, maybe use your fancy degree or whatever to show off to some politicians instead. You know, people with the actual ability to change these things systematically. Not just some poorly paid food workers, expecting them to be grateful for--

Finally Enjolras burst through my vitriolic monologue with, “I don’t _ EXPECT _ you to be anything. The reality is that fighting the political side of things is a long-term battle -- raising minimum wage and matching it to the cost of living is a battle people have been fighting for years. So if I have the means to do so, why wouldn’t I try to help a fellow human being who I know is not being paid enough for their labor RIGHT NOW. I’m not trying to assert some powerplay, I’m just--

“Shame,” I snorted, “that’s--”

“ _ And _ you shouldn’t underestimate your strength, or the strength in numbers, because poorly paid food workers have the power to organize.”

“Yeah? Well poorly paid food workers don’t have enough time for that. I don’t have time to convince people to pay me a humane wage. So excuse me while I work my allotted 50 hour work week and do fuck all in my off-time.”

“I understand that, but my point is that community organizing is important. Bolstering your community is important. We have less of a need for politicians at all when a community is empowered enough to support its own--”

“Community? Are you really trying to insinuate right now that we’re a part of the same community? Did you miss everything I said before? How are we a community when we don’t face any of the same issues?”

“What? How do you eve know-- Look, I  _ live _ here, I take public transit, I  _ see _ \--”

I laughed bitterly. “Oh, so you think because you take the bus -- by choice, I’m sure, and not necessity -- you suddenly know intimately about the needs of the working class? No offense, Enjolras, but you look like the kind of kid who had parents who were too afraid to send him to public schools. And I  _ bet _ you live in a gentrified neigh--”

“You don’t know anything about me!”

“You don’t know anything about ME!”

Our voices had progressively raised, and when I shouted that last line, I suddenly felt how loud I was by the resounding silence I was met with. Shrinking with the sudden attention I’d brought to myself, I lashed out like a defensive animal with, “Fuck you,” and turned away. 

Fortune took a rare moment to shine her graces on me, and my eyes immediately locked on another cook coming on shift. That meant my shift was over, and that’s all I needed to know.

“Hey man, you’re good to go,” the approaching cook said, looking with uncertain concern between me and Enjolras.

I looked at Enjolras one last time too and found him embodying a combination of fury, hurt, and hesitation (and perfectly equipped with a half-eaten plate of eggs if the need to throw something hit him again). His hands were tightly clenched. This caused something base in me to preen, which in turn made me feel endangered, and so I very abruptly and unceremoniously just said, “Yeah,” to my co-worker and spun toward the back, untying my apron as I walked.

I pointedly didn’t look at Eponine as I passed her. If I could help it, I would be long gone before she could yell at me.

\--

My hands were starting to shake as I slugged on my jacket, instinctively grabbing the pack of cigarettes out of my pocket as I did so. A litany of self-abuse was starting up in my head. To be honest, Reader? I felt embarrassed. I frantically lit a cigarette as I punched out on the timeclock and then wearily shoved myself through the employee door to the parking lot. I saw my beat-up car not far off, but I elected to slump against the side of the building for a moment and calm myself with a dizzying rush of nicotine to the head.

Why had we even started arguing? Where were the stakes in that conversation? Looking at it retrospectively, it made no sense. What was it about this guy that made me so  _ angry _ ? I’d dealt with annoying holier-than-thou types before. What was it, exactly, about this kid with bleached blond hair and a savior complex?

“Grantaire!”

I inhaled from my cigarette deeply and clenched my lungs furiously, holding holding holding, and then exhaled with a rush of nothing but smoke and a desire to be smited where I stood by God himself.

“Leave me  _ alone _ , Egg Boy.”

“Grantaire, wait! Look, I’m sorry.”

“Why are  _ you _ sorry,” I stated more than asked, because Enjolras apologizing at all meant he’d claimed responsibility for something he wasn’t responsible for, or at least not solely responsible. Which in turn made me feel like shit. I was the one who’d instigated this from the start, wasn’t I? It was MY fault. I should be sorry, and I wasn’t. Instead Enjolras was, when he shouldn’t be. And the guilt that nudged at me over that in turn made me horribly defensive.

“I—look, I just want to get to know you.”

I laughed bitterly. “To prove what?”

“I don’t want to  _ prove _ —”

He cut off because I’d turned abruptly, flicking my cigarette into the parking lot. As I did so, I’d nearly turned right into him. God, why was he standing so close? His eyes widened at me and, in an attempt to avoid his gaze, I glanced down -- at his lips.

A sharp intake of breath hit my ears. Mine? His?

My insides had turned into a black hole and a tingling nothingness was hitching under my skin. And with this idea of black holes, I found myself envisioning myself pulling him towards me, and the pitch in my stomach – but black holes are destructive. They are destruction incarnate. And that was a bit extreme. Get a grip, Grantaire.

I roughly pulled away, allowing myself only to roughly brush shoulders with Enjolras.

“Excuse me,” I muttered softly, starting off in the direction of my car with thinly veiled desperation. The hand that had previously handled a cigarette now was pulling out the flask, without my brain even registering, and I took a ragged sip yet again.

“Grantaire—are you  _ drinking _ ?”

Oh my god. “No,” I said as I took another gulp and shoved my key into the lock of my car door.

“Grantaire, don’t… Let me drive you home.”

“I’m not  _ drunk _ , Enjolras. I’m not even buzzed. Jesus.”

“Yeah, I know, whatever. But you’re angry and--and--please just let me drive you home.”

“Gracious as your offer is, I can’t. I have work in the morning.”

“I can pick you up and take you to work tomorrow too, look, please, just give me some peace of mind here.”

I swung around and stared at him. “Enjolras, I’m going to be perfectly honest with you: being in a car alone with you sounds like a nightmare.  _ This _ is not your problem, and also? None of your business.”

“Grantaire, I’m driving you home.” He said it so imperiously, and the orange sun starting to submerge itself among the trees caught his bleached hair and made it golden. If I believed in god or divinity, maybe I would wax poetic about how looking at him felt like being doused in a god’s Favor. I didn’t  _ need _ him to drive me home -- truly, I didn’t even live that far -- but I suddenly felt greedy for the opportunity to sit in his presence outside of this diner hellhole, outside of the rigid customer/employee dynamic that was always at the forefront of my mind and so obviously not at the forefront of his.

So, contrary to everything that my brain was telling me, I clenched my keys in my fist so hard I could feel the metal biting into my skin and said quietly, “Fine.”

He looked a little surprised that I’d agreed so suddenly, but then looked satisfied, which made me want to punch him. He pointed me to his car, and Reader?

I was disappointed at how perfectly normal it was. Not showy. Not even a model from the last ten years. When I slumped myself into the passenger seat, there were even a few stains on the fabric of the chair. Not that that meant any of my first impressions were  _ wrong _ .

The silence between us was suddenly thick, and stilted, and awkward. Being enclosed in a car with someone often has the chance for such intimacy, but I was too occupied with radiating regret to even begin to cultivate that. Enjolras tittered self-consciously as he got himself situated and started the engine. He coughed quietly. 

“Um… here, can you plug your address into my phone?”

“Yeah.”

He passed his phone to me and, our fingers briefly touching, I felt my brain twist into a double-helix of fury and attraction. I quickly typed the address in, shoved his phone back to him, and redirected my gaze to stare moodily out the car window. Everything felt suddenly unbearable, and I clamped my eyes shut as I suddenly dove to absolve myself. 

“Look, I  _ do _ agree with you, Enj--”

“--Not bad, only ten minutes--”

We both stopped plowing over each other’s words, and stared at each other. I’m sure my eyes looked glassy; they burned heavily. The booze? Exhaustion? Strung out on the presence of an annoying class traitor?

“Sorry, you go?” Enjolras offered hesitantly, almost looking hopeful. He started to back out of the parking lot, giving me the privacy I needed to take the plunge.

“I was just… um. Saying. I do agree with you.” I paused, breath hitching like a wagon under me. “But people don’t like being preached at. People working 50 hour work weeks with zero benefits don’t want to hear about how their lives could be better from someone who very obviously doesn’t have those problems. People don’t like being condescended.” My words didn’t have the same heat, instead emanating bitterness. I felt a sudden fear that I sounded as if I was pouting. 

For what it’s worth, I suddenly feel the inclination to tell you, Reader: if I was Catholic, I am sure that I would have chosen Enjolras as my patron saint.

“How do you know that I don’t work fifty hour work weeks too?”

“I’m sure you do… in academia. Or  _ organizing _ . Whatever. But it’s different. Like, I can tell by your teeth that you have dental insurance.”

I watched Enjolras shoot me a side-look and run his tongue self-consciously along his teeth, under the cloak of his lips. I smirked in victory. Enjolras was not one to admit defeat so easily, though. “I have plenty of people on my organizing team who work multiple jobs --  _ not  _ in academia -- long hours, too, and who don’t have benefits. They still show up.”

“Okay, and? That’s supposed to suddenly give  _ you _ more credibility?”

“What more do you want, Grantaire?”

“You’re not going to convert me, Enjolras. To your cause or whatever. It’ll never be enough. I regret to inform you that I am a black hole of a human being. It’ll never be enough.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes and took his hands off the wheel to gesticulate in frustration. “You’re so fucking dramatic.”

Something about that made me laugh hysterically. And just like that, the banter we had at the diner was restored.

Enjolras smiled at me, watching me laugh, and my laughter trailed off when he looked almost tender as he regarded me. “I’m not trying to  _ convert  _ you anyway, Grantaire. I just like talking with you.”

My insides froze, and I stared off into the distance noncommittally. “He just likes talking,” I said mockingly, for irreverence is the tried-and-true measure of self-preservation.

“And why are you the authority on my teeth anyway?”

I snorted.

\--

My phone lit up with a call from Eponine. I instantly answered it.

“Are you still here? Your car is in the parking lot.”

“No, uh. Someone else drove me home.”

“...Egg boy?”

I didn’t answer. The silence did the work for me.

“Can I drive your car?”

“What? Why?”

“My ride bailed.”

“I guess, but… the keys are with me.”

“That’s okay, I already got the door open. I’ll figure something out.”

“Wait… what? Eponine?”

“Pick you up in the morning! Bye!”

Click.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, it's been a while! life was already intense, got more intense, has continued to be intense... i considered abandoning this, but i figured i'm already this far and there isn't much further to go. thank you so much for reading, and stay tuned for more :-)


End file.
